Of ancient forests—till behold, in light,
Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep,
Through the rent rocks—where, o'er the mist of spray,
The rainbow, like a fairy in her bow'r,
Is sleeping while it roars—that volume vast,
White, and with thunder's deaf'ning roar, comes down.
Part III. opens with the following metaphorical gem:—
The show'r is past—the heath-bell, at our feet,
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear